“I could have gotten us all killed.”
“Actually, I had a clean shot at him the whole time.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.” I put my hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Look at it this way, it’s a lesson learned. Next time, you’ll be more careful.”
She reached up and thumbed a tear out of her good eye. “Yes, I will.”
I heard footsteps approach and turned my head to see Mike rounding the corner, shoulders bent under the weight of two sloshing gerry cans. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “If there are any walkers close by they probably heard the commotion.”
Mike refueled the Humvee, climbed in the driver’s seat, and we got under way. I sat in the back with Sophia, her head in my lap, carefully stroking her soft blond hair. The stress of the last half-hour took its toll and she was soon snoring gently, a small trickle of drool expanding in a warm wet spot on my thigh. I smiled, deciding not to say anything to her about it. She’d been through enough lately.
Leaning back in my seat, I fought against the lead weights pulling down on my eyelids. Sleep had been a bit of a problem lately. Most of my downtime was spent wide-awake, mind racing, hands never far from a weapon. When I did manage to drift off, nightmares I could not remember were never long in waking me up.
I told myself I was going to relax a little while, just long enough to clear my head. The road drifted by outside the window, grassy plains reflecting pale silver under a full moon. Both front windows were down, letting a cool wind dry the sweat on my skin. I closed my eyes, head rocking back and forth as we rode over bumps in the pavement, concentrating on the steady hum of tires speeding over asphalt.
At some point while I was drifting, I heard the sound of gravel crunching and looked out my window. Mike had pulled the Humvee to the side of the road and got out. I opened my door and said, “What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. We’ll talk when you wake up.”
That sounded like the best advice ever given. I did as he suggested, closing my eyes and letting sleep claim me. Approximately four seconds later, a hand grabbed my arm and shook me.
“Caleb, wake up.” It was Sophia’s voice.
I blinked rapidly and sat up straight, eyes stinging from the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. “I was barely asleep,” I said. But even to my own ears, my voice sounded groggy.
“Kid, you’ve been out for almost two hours,” Mike said.
I rubbed my eyes and looked around blearily. “Where are we?”
“Where do you think?” Mike turned in the driver’s seat, eyes red with exhaustion but smiling nonetheless. “We made it. Welcome to Colorado Springs.”
*****
It was just after six in the morning.
From the heat of the sun on my back, I knew we were facing west. Ahead of us, a line of vehicles—mostly military by the look of them, but a few civilian ones as well—rose toward a heavily guarded checkpoint at the intersection of highways 24 and 94.
In the distance, the sawblade peaks of the Rocky Mountains soared over hazy rooftops, the city squat and puny by comparison. Smoke from hundreds of fires plumed toward the sky, forming an oblong cloud that stretched flat and gray under a southerly wind. The smell of burning wood stung my nose, along with the scent of diesel fumes and my own unwashed body.
Looking left and right, I saw heavy equipment and construction workers crawling like ants across the landscape, busily erecting a fence with steel I-beam posts and pre-formed slabs of concrete. I had seen a fence like it before and stared, puzzled, until memory pierced the fog of sleep.
“It’s a sound barrier,” I said.
Sophia turned her head, the swollen eye surrounded by an angry purple bruise. “What’s that?”
I pointed. “That fence they’re building. It’s just like the barriers you see along interstates and bypasses near residential neighborhoods. They work like baffles, supposed to reduce road noise.”
Sophia peered out the window. “Looks like they’re building it to keep the infected out.”
“That would be my guess too.”
We made slow progress toward the checkpoint, rolling a few feet at a time as guards in Army ACUs either waved vehicles through the gate or directed them to park in the open stretches of field lining the highway. As we drew closer, I saw there was a chain-link fence topped with razor wire stretching north to south that curved along the outskirts of town. Across the field to my right, the peaked roofs of suburban homes poked their heads over a low brick wall. To my left, signs welcomed visitors and service members to Peterson Air Force Base.
From the south, the rapid thrum of spinning rotors grew steadily louder until a Blackhawk passed lazily over the checkpoint, a minigun manned on the starboard side. Moments later, an Apache gunship armed with two canisters of Hydra 70 rockets and a chain-gun drifted by, the long barrel of the gun swiveling in tandem with the pilot’s line of sight. My heart caught in my chest as the cannon seemed to point right at me for a moment, then moved on.
“Security looks pretty tight,” Mike said, squinting through the windshield. “Guess that’s a good thing.”
I watched the helicopters float away and said nothing.
An hour later, we reached the checkpoint. A harried-looking sergeant waved us forward to a painted red line and signaled for us to stop. He approached the window, rifle slung across his chest, sweat pouring down from under his helmet. “What are you doing out of uniform?” he demanded.
Mike blinked. “Excuse me?”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “You’re not military.” A statement, not a question.
“Not for about ten years now,” Mike replied. “If you’re wondering where we got the Humvee, I have papers for it.”
The guard looked the Humvee over, noticing its modifications. “Civilian owned?”
“That’s right.”
His eyes drifted up to the turret, and for a moment, I was worried what he would think of the M-249 mounted there. But when I looked up, the gun was gone. I almost asked Mike where it was, but stopped myself when I remembered Mike pulling over by the side of the road the night before. It was not hard to put two and two together.
“Do you have any weapons?” the sergeant asked. I caught a glimpse of his nametag: Dillon, it read.
“Three carbines, three pistols, a hunting rifle, and a few boxes of ammo.”
“Anything else? Bombs, grenades, rocket launchers, nuclear warheads?”
Mike chuckled. “No, nothing like that.”
Sergeant Dillon’s comment had not been a mere passing jest. I had heard of cops using the same tactic, making a joke to see how a person reacted. If they laughed, it usually meant the person in question was nothing to worry about. If they didn’t, it meant they were nervous, which was always a bad thing during a traffic stop.
“This your first time in Colorado Springs?” Sergeant Dillon asked.
“Yes it is.”
“We’re going to have to search your vehicle.”
“Not a problem,” Mike said. “You do it here, or should I pull over somewhere?”
“Follow that young lady over there,” said Dillon. “She’ll direct you where to go.”
A private, who could not have been a day over twenty but had the eyes of a much older woman, waved us off the road and pointed to another uniformed soldier standing in a field. He motioned us closer, then had us turn left along a line of cars parked outside the fence. We drove to the end of the line where another soldier pointed us to our parking spot. The troop made a cutting motion across his throat. Mike killed the engine.
“Wait here,” the soldier said. “Stay in your vehicle until one of us tells you to get out.”
We all acknowledged politely and made ourselves comfortable.
The air warmed as the sun rose, forcing us to open the windows to stay cool. While we waited, teams of soldiers worked their way through the lines of parked cars, trucks, and SUVs, each receiving a thorough search.